


A lesson in French

by PoemAboutCitylights



Category: Sports RPF, Tennis RPF
Genre: Fluff, Learning French, M/M, No longer unrequited feelings, Roger has been an idiot, Roland Garros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 09:39:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14788044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoemAboutCitylights/pseuds/PoemAboutCitylights
Summary: Rafa's French is rusty, Roger's isn't.Rafa is playing the French Open, Roger doesn't.Rafa is in Paris, Roger isn't.Or is he?





	A lesson in French

Roger is a man on a mission. An important one. One that cannot wait.   
Or at least that is what he tells himself while he’s making the last minute plans to fly to Paris, despite the preparation work he should better be doing instead.   
It is not _last minute_ last minute, for he has planned on visiting Rafa anyway so his jet is already equipped, but after the suspension of the Spaniard’s match, he changes his mind and decides to fly over immediately.   
He hasn’t seen the Majorcan in quite a while, it feels like an eternity, but that’s just the effect that Rafa has on people.   
Or maybe Roger is just generally screwed, which is likelier but not really something he wants to think about for too long.

The flight to Paris is a short one, it takes barely more than an hour and his cab ride to the Spaniard’s hotel is actually what makes up the longest part.   
It’s not that Rafa has told him where he’s staying, but Roger has his sources, mind you.   
The younger one is staying at a nice quarter, not too far away from the courts but not too close either, shielded from the French Open tourists.   
On any other day, Roger would have taken his time to have a look around, since he loves the city dearly, but not today, not with his mission, not with all the things he should have told Rafa such a long time ago but didn’t, for some fucked up reason that makes sense whenever the Spaniard is standing right in front of him but kills Roger each night when he’s lying in his bed alone.   
It definitely has its advantages, being him, one of them being that no one asks any questions when he’s demanding to know Rafa’s room number.   
He grows nervous on the elevator ride, of course he does, it’s Rafa, after all, but he digs his short nails into his palms and ignores it as good as he can.   
  
Roger forces himself to knock on the door without any hesitation but fails miserably, so he has to knock again, a little too loud this time.   
His heart is beating in his throat when the door eventually opens up, revealing Rafa in dark jeans and a black shirt, which sleeves have been, rolled up, revealing the Spaniard’s orange sponsor watch on his wrist.   
Roger swallows, hard, because Rafa is too damn beautiful for this world, always has been, always will he and he’s just completely fucked.  
Rafa’s eyes widen and his lips part slightly, surprise written all over his face while he is holding on to the doorframe with one hand, his dark eyes quickly roaming over Roger.   
“Hello,” he says, knowing how dumb he sounds and Rafa’s eyes widen a little more.   
“Hello…?” Rafa replies and Roger isn’t sure whether he’s just repeating his words sarcastically or not.   
“I thought I’d visit you,” Roger eventually manages to say, still feeling like a goddamn 15-years old, which he probably is, all things considered.   
“Visit me…” Rafa repeats and Roger stares at him, can’t do anything but that, because fucking hell, he’s missed that accent.   
The Majorcan brings up a hand and runs his taped fingers through his dark locks, a habit he has picked up when his curls had been longer, almost reaching down to his shoulders.   
Roger remembers these times vividly, because in some way, he had already known back then and at the same time he hadn’t, because he was stupid and oblivious and probably the biggest idiot on the planet.   
  
“Can I come in?” he asks and for the blink of an eye, he actually fears that Rafa might say no, that he’ll throw him out without another word.   
But the Majorcan simply shoots him another suspicious gaze before stepping aside and leading Roger into his suite, clean and tidy as always, looking like Rafa has just moved in. Only his bags and two rackets that are standing by the window give a hint that a professional tennis player is staying here.   
“So…” Rafa starts, sitting down on one of two armchairs that are standing by the window, illuminated by soft lightning that dips the room in warm colours, “you been in Paris?”   
Hesitating, Roger sits down across from him and shakes his head.   
“No, I wanted to visit you, like I’ve said.”   
“Oh, okay,” Rafa says and something flashes across his face but it’s gone too quickly for Roger to catch up and the room isn’t bright enough, while rain splatters against the big windows, lightning dancing across the black sky.   
And Roger feels like the thunderstorm isn’t just outside but in here as well, for the tension between him and Rafa is making the air feel electric, like voltage building up.   
  
But he is not able to focus on that properly anyway, for he is too captivated by the younger Spaniard, caught up in his dark eyes and the way he draws in his bottom lip, in how he brings his thumb and index finger together without even knowing he’s doing it.   
He is lost in the walking contradiction that is Rafael Nadal, with his broad shoulders and strong body, the softest of smiles and tender finger.   
And Roger wonders how he hasn’t _seen_ , how he has been so blind throughout the years, even when Rafa had basically been begging him to look for it, because Rafa had seen it in _him_.    
And Roger doesn’t understand how that is possible, will never understand how Rafa had seen anything _wonderful_ , anything _special_ in him. Because he is just Roger and Rafa is _Rafa_ and Roger could never live up to that.

But now he is at a point where he simply does not care anymore because he misses Rafa like hell, first of all as a friend but also as that _something_ they have always been. Too close for friends and too distant for anything else, too reserved, too _scared_.   
Roger doesn’t want to be scared anymore, not when it eats him up each day, knowing pretty damn well that it is doing the same to Rafa, constantly and all over again each time that they see each other.

And still, there is that tiny voice in the back of his head that makes him doubt everything, because it has been years since Rafa’s confession, so what if he has moved on? What if he doesn’t feel like that anymore?   
Why for heaven’s sake should Rafael Nadal wait until Roger has gotten his shit together?   
Roger can’t come up with one good reason but as long as there’s hope, any kind of hope, he has to try it.   
  
“What have you been up to?” he asks eventually, to break the silence and ease the tension away.   
Rafa looks at him and raises an eyebrow, in such a typical way that Roger’s mouth goes dry.   
“I played match today, Rogelio. Roland Garros.”   
“Y-yeah,” Roger stutters, “I know, I… I meant right before I came here.”   
“You mean before you interrupted my lesson, no?”   
Roger frowns, “Your lesson?”   
A bright blush spreads on Rafa’s tanned face and he looks like he regrets telling Roger in the first place.   
“My lesson… sí.”   
“Your lesson?” Roger repeats once again, glancing around the room without getting any clue from it.   
Rafa brings up a fist and coughs embarrassedly.   
“What kind of a lesson?”   
The Majorcan avoids his gaze when he finally answers.   
“French.”   
“French?”   
Rafa’s face darkens visibly and his eyes narrow, “Sí, Roger, you not listen?”   
“You’re learning French?”   
“Yes, my French is very bad, no? _Dur_.”   
“Mauvais,” Roger corrects and Rafa rolls his eyes, drawing in his bottom lip.   
“Why are you learning French?” he asks curiously and Rafa sighs, running a hand through his hair once again.   
“For… for the acceptance speech.”   
Roger can’t suppress a grin at that and Rafa looks seriously offended.  
“Hey! What so funny?”   
Roger chuckles softly and grins at the Spaniard.   
“Nothing, it’s endearing.”   
“Endearing?” Rafa repeats, sounding suspicious, eyebrows shooting up once more.   
“Your French after last year’s title was good, though. Why are you worrying so much?”   
“I always forget all the words when I’m emotional, no? Sucks.”   
“I could help you,” Roger proposes and he isn’t sure where _that_ is coming from but he’d do anything to have a reason to stay a little longer.   
“What?” Rafa frowns.   
“With your French. Are you writing a speech, or something?”   
Rafa still eyes him suspiciously, like he tries to figure Roger out but fails. Eventually, he pulls a neatly folded piece of paper out of his pocket, though.   
He hands it to Roger and the Swiss doesn’t miss that the Majorcan’s fingers are trembling slightly.   
It’s probably just because of the strenuous match, though.   
  
He scans the text quickly and smiles during some passages, because it’s just so _Rafa_ to be prepared like that, worrying about his French way too much.   
And he doesn’t want to keep it in any longer, really isn’t able to, with the way that Rafa is looking at him expectantly, dark eyes all curious and big.   
  
“I like it,” he says and catches Rafa’s gaze, “but isn’t it lacking some more emotional phrases, though?”   
“Emotional phrases?” the Majorcan asks, a little confused, before reaching out for the text, “like what?”   
“Oh, I don’t know…” Roger says and forces himself to _just go for it_ , “like _Je t’aime_ , for example.”   
Rafa’s face falls immediately and he leans away from Roger, pressing his lips together.   
“Funny, Rogelio…”   
“No!” Roger calls, panicking, because this clearly just backfired, “No, Rafa, listen.”   
Hurt is flashing across the Majorcan’s face and his eyes are of a dangerous black, apparently believing that Roger is making fun of him for the words that Rafa has spoken all these years ago.   
“Rafa…” Roger says, quieter this time, “ _je t’aime_.”  
When Rafa does not say anything, just stares at him, Roger continues to speak.   
“I know that it has taken too long for me to realize it and I’m sorry, Rafa. God, I’m so sorry.”   
“You…” Rafa starts, disbelief written all over his face. He sounds a little breathless.   
“You… me amas?”   
Roger nods, “Say it in whatever language you want, I do. Love you, Rafa.”   
The Spaniard closes his eyes, letting out a shaky breath.   
“You are one idiot, Roger Federer, no?”   
And then Rafa grins, smiles that beautiful smile that could light up whole fucking Paris and the knot that has been forming in Roger’s chest finally, _finally_ , eases away at the sight.   
“Un imbécile,” Roger states and Rafa chuckles, barely audible and below his breath, and then Rafa’s hand is in Roger’s neck, drawing him in until their foreheads are leaning against each other.   
“Tu eres incroyable,” Rafa whispers and the Swiss suppresses the urge to correct him. He doesn’t care so much anymore anyway when Rafa kisses him.   
  


**_La fin._ **

**Author's Note:**

> I saw Rafa's post of him in Paris this morning and fucking hell, that are two of my favourite things combined. And THEN I found that selfie of these to idiots from the Laver Cup once again and well... this is the result. 
> 
> I hope you liked it and if you did, please leave kudos/a comment :)
> 
> Plus, I'm super exited for Rafa's match today... I got a little scared yesterday, with the rain suspension and him struggling with his serves and I truly hope that he'll manage to come back stronger today. Your thoughts?


End file.
